


Sweeter Than A Muffin

by stads02



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Illya tries really hard ok, Illya's a cutie, Muffins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:08:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4745849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stads02/pseuds/stads02
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya deals with his emotions and Napoleon and attempts to make muffins for the girl he likes.</p><p>(based off a tumblr prompt from: wroses)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweeter Than A Muffin

Illya frowned, crouching down as far as his long legs would let him and squinted into the oven.

These better turn out right.

He’d gone to the supermarket. Found a recipe that was “easy, so that anybody could do it!”  Then he’d broken the whisk by gripping to hard and had to buy a new one. He’d even triple locked the door and closed the windows so he could put an apron because according to Napoleon, it was a must.

_These better turn out right._

The timer dinged and he sprang into action, putting on oven mitts and carefully taking the pan out of the oven.

He sat them on the top of the stove and held up the piece of paper. They had the correct browning that the recipe picture had. As long as he followed the recipe to the smallest detail it would be fine. Right?

Illya glanced at the paper again, it stating that they should cool for ten minutes before moving them to a separate plate.

He sighed, and turned off the oven collapsing into the closest chair.

He was never told that baking could be this stressful or hard.

_They had really better turn out right._

Illya looked at the mess he’d made. The mixer would need cleaning. And the measuring cups. And the spatula, the pan, the spoons, the counter, and the apron. He felt a grudging respect for the cowboy who did this quite often. For fun.

He shook his head, muttering to himself, “Crazy cowboy,” and stood up to finish the job while the muffins cooled.

Illya always felt awkward in a kitchen. He was big. He was good at shooting guns and fighting and doing things that needed large amounts of physical exertion. Cooking and baking was this strange foreign thing that required all the attributes that he didn’t have. It liked people with small hands that would not shake and people who had immense amounts of patience and attention to detail. Illya liked elegant things, but he liked simple elegant things.

Like Gaby. She was complicated and confusing but at the same she was understandable and soft. She was his undoing. Gaby could surprise him by suddenly bursting into a dance. She would refuse a piece of jewelry that the jeweler had promised all women would love. But Gaby could be so amazingly predicable, the way she watched fancy cars drive by with great fascination, or when she found the weirdest of sunglasses in clothing stores. The ones she could somehow wear and still look gorgeous. 

He glared at the muffins, as if they could understand his annoyance and pointed his index finger at them dangerously.

“You better turn out right.”

Then the doorbell rang and he rushed to open up the curtains and untangle himself from the apron that could most likely be used as a straitjacket.

He peeked through the peep hole to see a fancy suit and threw the door open.

“Hello,” he said, scowling what he thought was one of his better scowls.

“Ah! Peril!” Napoleon smiled and let himself into his apartment, “I looked up and saw your windows were closed,” he sniffed the air, “Cooking? Baking?”

“Yes I can cook. Everybody needs to eat, cowboy,” Illya refused to let him know what he’d been doing.

Napoleon nodded sagely, “I see.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to ask you a favor.”

“No.”

“I haven’t even told you what it is.”

“The answer is still no.”

Napoleon sighed, “Fine,” he looked at Illya with an eyebrow raised, “Then I’ll just have to get Gaby.”

Illya felt his right eye slightly twitch, he turned away from Napoleon to stare at his unfinished game of chess, “Go ahead.”

He heard Napoleon shift and sit across from him on the table. After a couple seconds, he moved the white bishop across the board to take his black pawn.

Illya scowled at him.

“It’s just,” Napoleon said, looking up as if he were searching for the words, “I need somebody to be my backup. I’m going to a gala in a week and somebody attending has one of my possessions.”

Illya coughed.

“If they steal what I originally stole, then they’re the thief,” Napoleon said, “But continuing, I need somebody to be my backup. The whole thing could go up in flames quite quickly.”

Illya moved his rook forward two spaces.

“So here’s the situation. Either you can be my bodyguard, as I pretend to be somebody so important I need one, or,” he paused almost touching his king, before shaking his head, “-Nice move Peril- Gaby is my gorgeous wife of which nobody would assume she’s lethal.”

He stopped and leaned back in his chair, and Illya looked up from the board back at him, “Which situation would you prefer?”

“Why do you need this possession back so badly?”

Napoleon looked bored, “I like to steal and I don’t particularly like getting stolen from. It’s plain and simple: I want what is mine back, and I want revenge.”

“Your plan is weak.”

Napoleon sighed again, and moved his queen almost all the way across the board, “Check,”

Illya moved his knight in the way, “No check.”

“Look Peril, I came to you first. You should feel honored.”

“I do not.”

He leaned forward, “Do you want to know the real reason why I went to you first?”

Illya looked back at him blankly.

“Because this watch is going to be rather difficult to steal back.”

Illya silently nodded, as he watched Napoleon genuinely frown and stare at a spot on the carpet.

“Even with my skills, there is still going to be a chance that I will get in trouble. Gaby is amazing, but she’d only be able to hide a knife under her dress. You on the other hand could have a gun and because you are my bodyguard, and nobody would look differently. And we’re on the same page right?”

“What page.”

“The page of which we both don’t want our little German friend getting hurt. Although, do correct me if I’m wrong. If she’s expendable-”

“Gaby is not expendable,” Illya growled, “Play your turn.”

Napoleon’s eyes widened and he slowly moved his other knight to protect his previously moved bishop.

Illya did not move. He only stared at the man across from him. Keeping his face steady was easy. His hands did not betray him but he felt his heart beating steady.

“I see,” Napoleon said. He looked at Illya differently. In a new light.

Illya briefly wondered what it was he saw on the Americans’ face. He was not as unobservant, or obtuse as Solo most likely thought. Illya noticed many things others thought he didn’t. He noticed the way Napoleon attempted to help him with Gaby romantically. He noticed the times Napoleon winked flirtatiously at Gaby only for his eyes to carefully flit to him. He noticed the way how Napoleon no longer seriously tried anything with Gaby. He noticed the way Napoleon treated him with his understanding of his feelings to Gaby.

And now he noticed the understanding on Napoleons face. The understanding that Illya did not only like Gaby romantically. Napoleon had noticed just how dear Illya held the spitfire mechanic to his heart.

He didn’t know whether it was a smart or incredibly stupid move to play letting the cowboy know how important Gaby was to him.

Illya moved his queen, taking one of Napoleons pawns, “Gaby will not go with you to this party.”

He slowly took the pawn off the board and palmed it and glared at Napoleon, “I will.”

Illya knew that his emotions had been played. But at least Napoleon didn’t walk away having gotten what he’d wanted. He stayed for the rest of the chess game which gave Illya pleased to have such a competent opponent. Napoleon, as daft and loud as he was, was still sly and slippery. He could play a good game of chess.

Then finally the cowboy got up. Illya stayed sitting.

“Thank you, Illya,” Napoleon looked earnestly at him.

“Save your thanks,” Illya replied, “I am not doing this for you.”

“Ah,” Napoleon looked like he was about to laugh.

The annoyance bubbled into something stronger, his hands threatened to twitch, “Do not think for a second I do this for you. I do this to protect Gaby,” he still fingered the pawn he took at the start of the game, and waggled it in Napoleon’s face, “You may see her as a simple pawn. I see her when she is at the end of the board. When she is a queen.”

Then he let his fingers crush the tiny wooden piece.

It felt a horrible kind of satisfying.

Napoleon slowly nodded, and clapped his shoulder with his hand, “I will keep that in mind. As for now, I will take my leave and give you the details tomorrow for the party,” he paused, as if debating saying something else, “And do take those muffins out of the tray soon, Peril.”

And then he was gone leaving Illya in a state of anger and embarrassment.

He still got up and took the muffins out of the tray.

Insecurity and shame squirmed its way into his head replacing the anger.

He was not controlled like Napoleon. Napoleon had played him very well. Napoleon had caused him to admit how he felt for Gaby. How far he would go for her. 

The muffins made a statement on that.

Illya cradled one softly in his hands.

“Please turn out right.”

 

 

True to his word, Napoleon contacted him with the details of the party, and sent him directions to a suitor with money. He stated that his body guard would be well dressed.

Illya couldn’t have cared less as men took notes of his measurements for the proper fitting of his suit.

The muffins he made turned out grainy.

He threw them out and made another batch.

He couldn’t have cared less when he walked into UNCLE headquarters to request a gun that would fit better in said new suit.

The next tin of muffins burned a bit. But they were not grainy.

He threw them at the wall.

He had to go buy another pan.

Then he made more.

He couldn’t have cared less when he had trouble finding big enough shoes to match the suit.

On the afternoon of the party he baked another batch. He listened to songs on the radio that Gaby would listen to.

In the week between Napoleon visiting his apartment and the gala, Gaby went to West Germany for a quick in and out recon mission. She would be arriving home when he would be with Napoleon at the party.

In the week he felt himself deteriorate. He threw his emotions, all his emotions away. He felt hollow. It was easier not feeling. He still attempted to make the muffins.

Illya took the pan out of the oven. He frowned at the treats.

“You need to be right.”

Then he left them to cool and put on his suit.

He still felt empty when Napoleon looked him over, deeming him acceptable and they headed towards the fancy venue.

He started to feel something as he shadowed Napoleon, making it clear he was his protection.

He felt a bit more alive when things turned sour like Napoleon predicted. Shooting a man who only was pulling his gun out of his suit made much more sense. As was fighting another man and shouting at Napoleon to go get the car. Ignoring the gasps and screams of the guests who were not accustomed to the blood and the violence was natural to him, and he forget that he was battered and beaten when Napoleon drove, wheels screaming as he jumped into the convertible and they shot off, Napoleon with the watch he’d so desperately wanted.

Then he felt so tired when Napoleon dropped him off at his apartment.

“I owe you,” he looked serious, “If you ever need a favor.”

“You owe me nothing.”

He felt the undeniable anger at the American for ruining his week. Able to keep his hair perfect despite the scuffle. Able to get what he wanted with a bit of planning. Able to openly feel. Able to play him just like his Russian superiors. Able to make conversation with anybody. Able to be likable. Able to bake.

So he went up the stairs to his apartment, frowning when he realized the door was unlocked.

He looked left and right, reaching for his gun the second time that night. Illya slowly, carefully opened the door and then music hit his ears.

He found her in the kitchen.

She was dancing and softly singing along to the song blaring from the radio. She was eating one of his muffins and wearing a dress that fitted her well. Illya decided that he would encourage her to wear it often.

“Illya!” she sang, looking excited to see him, “I didn’t know you had an important Wednesday! You weren’t here when I got back.”

Illya smiled at her, her small figure moving to the music, “I was with the cowboy. He needed my help.”

Gaby laughed. Then she saw his knuckles when he reached for the first aid kit.

“Illya! What happened?” she frowned and forced him to sit down despite his size.

“Cowboy needed help.”

She eyed him critically, “Right.”

No matter how much he liked her, Gaby giving him first aid was one of his least favorite things. She decided that using more alcohol to disinfect any cuts was always a good idea. It always hurt.

She placed one of his muffins in his hands, “Good food always make you feel better.”

Illya forced his head not to turn dramatically to look at her, “You like them?”

“These muffins are fantastic,” Gaby took a large bite out of what Illya knew was her second muffin, “Able to beat Napoleon.”

He admired the brown muffin in his hands, and placed it contently on the table next to him

_They turned out right._

 “You know,” Gaby turned to him, “I would have never pegged you as a muffin person.”

“I enjoy them occasionally.”

Gaby giggled, “I see.”

Then she leaned in close to him, “Then why did Napoleon call me, telling me you’ve been making a new dozen every day?”

His throat was dry. He stared at Gaby’s playful brown eyes. The tips of her lips were upturned in a smile.

She stood in between his legs. Where her hands touched his body, it felt like fire.

“You know Illya,” she said, her face even closer, “I vaguely remember something that happened a week ago.”

It took all his effort to look calm while raising an eyebrow questioningly.

“I remember all three of us being at Solo’s apartment last Tuesday. I remember that he baked us muffins. I remember Solo saying that you were awful at cooking. And I also remember loving them and saying that I wish I could have something that good more often.”

She leaned impossibly close to him. Her hands had slowly trailed up to his shoulders. His hands at some point made their way to her waist.

“You could almost say Illya, that you made these for me.”

“I did,” the words were out of him before he could take them back.

She smelled like the muffins he’d tried so hard on. She smelled sweet and just like Gaby.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, “I loved them. But I like the man who made them more.”

Warmth flooded him and he closed the gap.

He pulled back, unsure if what he’d done was right but then Gaby pulled him back to her. Her hands ran through his hair.

She tasted better than muffins.

 


End file.
